It's You, Always
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: The first time Elena chooses Damon over Stefan, Klaus' fangs are perched on his neck. D/E post 2x16, a series of firsts.


**A/N: I stayed up all night after The Dinner Party writing this – and then weeks after that trying to meld it into something resembling an actual story. I have NO idea where it came from, but oh well. The timeline of this might not make much sense, to be honest. Basically, two parallel timelines are running – what's already happened (past tense) and what will happen (present tense). **

**This is my 30****th**** fanfiction, and my 10****th**** for the TVD universe – hooray!**

**Thanks as always to Mountain-Woman, whose help is invaluable and special.**

**And yay, it's happy! ;) This is complete and utter therapy for me. I don't think I need to elaborate on why this feels necessary…**

**Thanks for reading, enjoy, and PLEASE don't favorite without reviewing!**

**P.S. Title from "Too Late" by M83. I **_**sincerely**_** recommend listening to it as you read, or else watching the Youtube video (search ****Damon & Elena: ****You****, ****always ****by ****schokokeks1189).**

_If we could stay like this in a silver foil  
Trapped in amber for a life  
Permanent midnight  
Our love, our love  
I carry your heart in me  
- "Ion Square" by Bloc Party_

The first time she chooses him, something bright explodes in her heart, and all she can see is that perfect, crazy blue.

Even if she thought she was making a mistake (and she doesn't), those tendrils of sky would make it all too obvious.

This is the right choice.

Maybe it always was.

…

The first time Damon Salvatore saw Elena Gilbert, the heart he didn't have convulsed, and not unpleasantly. He knew instantly that she wasn't Katherine; his dear, lost love was desiccating in the tomb, even if he warred against that reality with all he had.

No, he knew Elena Gilbert wasn't Katherine Pierce. She was light, and laughter, and lazy smiles on summer mornings. She sparkled, and she glowed, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, if he were lucky, he'd hold her, if only just for a moment.

He didn't usually have such sentimental (weak) thoughts. But she was compassionate, kind. She was selfless and she was caring, and all his defenses seemed to slip when he caught even the slightest glimpse of that wide-mouthed, white-toothed smile. Because the sight of her, straight hair and long legs and signature black Converses, awakened something in him, something he was sure he'd lost.

Something competing with his brother had damaged irrevocably. Something losing Katherine had stolen from him. Something turning into a vampire had destroyed.

Something Elena gave back to him.

…

The first time he kissed her, it was for all the wrong reasons. (It was for the wrong person, too, but he was blind to that until later.)

It was the culmination of so many things, of feeling so deeply for her, of almost losing her tonight, of wanting so badly to just be _enough_ for her. He kissed her because he could feel that single shred of humanity (the shred of humanity she salvaged) pulsing somewhere inside him.

She looked beautiful, her hair in perfectly styled waves, her eyes bright yet shadowed, somehow, her smile quick and easy. She didn't seem alarmed to find him lounging on her porch, and he marveled at how far they'd come.

He shook his head ruefully, but there was no real ire in the way his gaze traced the planes of her face, her sweeping eyelashes and pretty mouth. He credited her for so much (he couldn't easily forget her offer of friendship), but above all else, he credited her for making him care again. He thought it was impossible, but there it was.

Caring.

He studied her, the way she held herself, confident and sure and almost too perfect. She was beautiful, obviously, but there was something else. Something he felt, something deep and uncontrollable and wonderful. Something that was all her:

Fire.

And suddenly, he found himself saying things he probably shouldn't say.

"I came to this town wanting to destroy it – tonight, I found myself wanting to protect it." He didn't know where these words were coming from, but he knew he had to say them. He was tired of pretending she hadn't changed him. He was tired of pretending he didn't need her, need her to save him from himself, need her to show him that he could be someone else, something different. "How does that happen?"

She said something about him maybe having good in him, but he wasn't sure he was listening. All he could hear was the still of the night, the rustle of her hair against her skin. All he could see was the encouragement in her eyes, the slightest hint of a blush in those russet cheeks.

All he could feel was her.

And he knew he shouldn't do it. He knew she loved his brother, that his brother loved her. He knew he didn't want history to repeat itself, didn't want to ruin everything they'd all managed to rebuild in the past few months. He knew, even, that maybe she had feelings for him, but they weren't real enough to act on yet. He knew all of this. He knew he shouldn't do it.

But he did it anyway. He kissed her anyway.

And it was as close to heaven as he'd ever get.

He lost himself in the press of her lips on his; nothing else mattered. He knew then – would always know, really – that she was the only woman he'd ever love for the rest of his forever. He'd never let go of her.

Even if she never gave herself to him.

And later, when he realized it was Katherine he kissed on the porch, he felt a crazy kind of sorrow he couldn't explain.

He realized that he was sorry Katherine took this moment from them.

…

The first time she stops pushing him to admit that he won't survive without her (she can't say can't, because the possibility is too much of an inevitability) and starts pushing herself to admit that surviving without him isn't so much an option, either, she can hardly breathe. Her life is in severe danger and she's barely managing to keep herself from falling apart.

And all she wants to do is close her eyes.

She's sitting somberly by the fire at the Boarding House (she can't go home, not with Uncle John running rampant), nursing a glass of whiskey. She understands now what Caroline meant about alcohol numbing the pain. She feels strangely desensitized.

Stefan is off hunting, as per usual. He is still slightly angry with her for the deal she made with Elijah – or rather, she thinks morosely, the clause that essentially stipulated her death. She doesn't think she made a mistake, but her boyfriend (she smarts at the word and wonders what her repulsive reaction means) certainly does. Even though Elijah is dead and the deal is essentially null and void, she and Stefan are still at odds.

They've decided to work together, but she doesn't know how that plan will ever actually succeed.

She doesn't have much time to think about that, though, because suddenly said boyfriend's brother comes storming in, eyes murderous. He's stomping through the house, unusually loud, and she can't help the smirk that curves her lips. He must be agitated.

(And that's probably an understatement.)

But he approaches her with something like grief in his eyes, and she realizes with a hole in her heart that he knows about the deal, too.

She doesn't know what to say. She never meant to hurt him – never meant to hurt any of them – but it seemed like her only option at the time. She realizes how cliché that sounds – how cliché that _is_. But she couldn't let everyone she loves put themselves in danger just so she could live. She couldn't do it.

She doesn't think she could watch them die.

"Damon," she begins, attempting to placate him. She stands up, sets down the glass, takes a shuffling, nervous step in his direction. She doesn't know how to justify her decision to him, the vampire whose instinct for self-preservation rivals Katherine's. "Let me explain."

He shakes his head almost violently. "I just don't understand why you decided to give up," he spits out.

Her jaw drops, clean and painful. "I didn't," she insists, fighting the urge to run away. She doesn't know how many times she's had to explain this particular facet of the deal. And she wants to be angry with him, wants to scream and hit him (it's been her default reaction for so long, after all). But there's terror in his face, that face she knows so well. He is scared. He is scared for her.

She softens almost immediately. "I wasn't giving up," she repeats, moving towards him, close enough to reach out and touch his shoulder. He shrinks away like her touch is pure poison, but she refuses to let his self-defense mechanisms bother her. Her very bones ache just to be near him. "I was doing what I thought was right."

She can hear how feeble that sounds, but she doesn't say anything else. She has to persevere, because otherwise she's going to fall apart.

He snaps anyways.

"Do you have any _idea_ what would have happened to everyone you love when you died?" He demands, his voice like fire, burning every inch of her skin.

She stares at him dumbly. She's bristling at the insinuation that she hadn't considered her loved ones' feelings before negotiating with Elijah. Of course she had considered her loved ones' feelings.

She had just decided she'd rather they mourn her than die.

She crosses her arms, glaring at him. "So you're here to lecture me on why I should fight, just like Stefan? Great. That's just _great_, Damon."

But he blinks rapidly, his eyes suddenly, unexpectedly soft. "No, of course not," he says soothingly (she knows he doesn't even realize he's doing it). "I'm here to tell you that you're doing the right thing."

She raises her eyebrows. "By fighting and getting all of us killed?"

He shakes his head, wonder – but not the good kind – flitting across his face. "You just don't get it, do you?"

She shifts uncomfortably. He's staring at her much too intently for her liking. "Get what?"

He smiles, bittersweet.

"Well," he says somewhat tenderly, throwing his hands up in the air as if that will make a difference, holding her gaze so fiercely that something in her breaks. "Let me enlighten you. If you die, Stefan will go mad with grief. Caroline and Bonnie won't know what to do with themselves, because their best friend won't be around. Jeremy won't have his _sister_. And I –"

"And you?" She interjects, taking a step towards him. She knows she shouldn't ask, but she can't help herself. Even with all the craziness of this sacrifice, she can't let go of this _thing _between them. She feels it whenever she's with him, and even when she's not. She has to know. She just needs to know.

A strange sort of twinge settles in her chest when he just blinks again, leaning towards her so minutely that she wouldn't notice if she didn't unwittingly notice every line of his body.

Of course she knows how he feels about her. She's known for so long – for too long. But sometimes, she just needs to hear it. It's unforgivably selfish of her, but she can't help it.

Because all she can feel is the ghost of his lips on hers on her front porch, a memory that never happened.

A memory that, sometimes, she wishes had happened.

"And me?" He echoes, as if the question is foreign, as if he hasn't given it much pause before.

As if he hasn't let himself consider what will happen to him once she dies, because the thought alone is too painful.

Oh.

She shakes as he regards her. She recognizes that off-kilter glaze in his eyes, the frantic light playing on the shadows of his incomparably glorious face, and she wants to cry. She always wants to cry when she's around him (she feels too much and yet not enough), but this feels different. She is in so much _pain_.

Somehow, she hasn't thought about what will happen to him if (it's no longer a "when," and she's surprised at the relief that floods her) she dies.

And she immediately regrets asking him to define his feelings. She has used the knowledge of how much he cares about her against him so many times, and she doesn't want to do it anymore. She can't keep doing this to him.

She won't.

She closes her eyes instead of delving deeper into that blue that holds her hostage so often. It's comforting in the darkness, shielded from the scary truth of her feelings for him. "No," she whispers.

He doesn't say anything. She doesn't know what there is to say, anyway.

She wishes she saw his eyes widen, but the truth is, she doesn't have to look at him to decipher his expression, the myriad of emotions fighting for control on his face. Confusion, she thinks, and maybe that blinding hope that suffocates her, and even the paralyzing love she has never been able to dispel. God, she can't do this.

She opens her eyes. "I'm not going to ask you that," she decides, her voice ringing with the authority that has become as familiar to her as his aquamarine eyes. "It's not fair of me to ask you that. Instead, I think I should tell you –"

"Tell me what?" He interrupts her eagerly. She almost laughs at how earnest he is, because the sight of him with such anticipation flittering through his cheeks and his nose and his mouth contradicts everything she knows about him.

But she feels her body expand, move to encompass him, fill with his words and his smile and a memory she knows he took away. She is full of him.

Only him.

She moves closer to him, twining her hands around his neck and pulling his forehead down to meet hers. She knows she is thrusting herself into dangerous territory, but her heart, split irrevocably in two, can't beat any longer without touching him. Death looms, and she can't face it like this.

Not without telling him –

She refuses to close her eyes. She makes herself look at him, gaze into him like she hasn't since he tore their friendship to shreds. She feels exposed, vulnerable, but she won't look away. Something like fear, or maybe that tight knot of anxiety, grips her as she stares at him, the chasm between them narrowing, the indelible proof of his claim on her reverberating in her mind, heedless of the weekend she just spent with his brother:

_I can't be selfish with you_.

The words run on repeat, reminding her that he can be the better man, that he _is _the better man, even if she doesn't know where the memory comes from.

She just knows it's real.

"Tell you that when I said I was doing this to save the people that I love," she confesses breathlessly, biting her bottom lip and holding his gaze even as the part of her that believes in fate folds in on itself (she will die, even if she lets herself want him), "I was including you in those people."

Her voice trembles, even as that glittering blue, restless and waiting (for her), seems to make time stop, her world colliding with his so perfectly that tears spill endlessly from her eyes. "I included you," she repeats, her voice hoarse, the fissure line in her chest rippling. "I will _always_ include you."

He just stares at her.

She feels so much for this man, this man she has fooled herself into believing she doesn't understand. She understands him completely, better than she'll ever understand anyone. That's scary.

But what's scarier is the possibility of that, feeling so, so _so_ (something she can't define) for him, disappearing, being ripped cruelly from her, in only a few months.

And she can't take the words back. She wouldn't if she could, anyways. She loves him. She can't say it like that (and maybe the day when she can will never come); this is the only way she can put it.

It's enough.

He draws back just a little, reaching up to cradle her cheek with his hand. She leans into his palm gratefully, suddenly unafraid. This moment may change them, but his eyes are soft, almost severe with the depth of his emotion. Somehow, that gaze seeps into her, warms her, holds her inexorably.

They linger for a while, breathing each other in, stagnant in the wake of promises made. Her hand finds his chest, and she holds still, aware that this is a stolen moment, unwilling to leave this secluded haven they've managed to construct together. She feels tears leak, feels them sting her cheeks, but she just holds still.

In the silence, all she can hear is his voice.

_I love you_.

He is the first to break the tranquility, and she knows exactly why. If they wait a little longer, breathe a little more, she'll fall into him. And she can't. Not right now. Not when her entire world – perhaps the entire world itself – is at stake.

"Elena," he whispers.

She smiles instead of breaking. It's painful and harsh and, somehow, the sweetest curve she has ever known.

She turns and walks away, wary of the aristocratic beauty delving into his face. His eyes are sad.

She hovers by the door just as she realizes he's going to stop her.

"I won't survive," he says quietly.

She tenses, tears falling so quickly that she barely registers their imprints on her skin. She knew this, of course. But to hear him acknowledge it is almost more than she can bear.

He sighs, a tired, broken sound. She aches, mind-numbing, throbbing.

"I won't survive if you die," he continues (she doesn't miss the hope he's clinging to). "I just won't."

She spins around, faces him. She nods curtly.

And then she leaves.

…

The first time he saw that unmistakable fire in her (the first time he knew there was no turning back), she slapped him and screamed, harsh and searing, "It matters and you _know_ it."

(It didn't matter, and he didn't know it, but he figured that was beside the point.)

He couldn't say he particularly enjoyed these circumstances; yet another dead teenage girl was sprawled across the ground, cold and still, and he didn't feel any remorse at the sight. Of course, his dirty little secret was that he wished he could regret killing whoever this flavor of the month was. He didn't feel guilty over her death, but something inside him told him he should.

Oh, humanity. What a teasing, conniving bitch. (Just like Katherine.)

And still, when her instincts should have been screaming at her to run far, far away, Stefan's little girlfriend just stood there, (admittedly wonderful) chest heaving, eyes glittering with tears, blood smearing her perky nurse's outfit. He knew how wrong it was to find her attractive in such a macabre moment, but he couldn't help himself. She looked delectable, as per usual.

The magnetism he felt towards her – the magnetism she denied for some unfathomable reason – only intensified when the familiar red liquid soaking her skin flooded his nose, warm and rich and almost impossible to resist.

(Just like her.)

He didn't know why he said it. He didn't know why he didn't just kill her right then and there. He could have, so easily; she was vulnerable and helpless.

But he narrowed his eyes and commanded, "You need to leave. Your wounds are bleeding, and you _need_ to leave."

Her eyes predictably widened, but what wasn't so predictable was the absence of fear in those doe-brown orbs. She didn't seem frightened at all. This was an untoward reaction, honestly, something he didn't have much experience with. He was used to women dissolving into frantic shrieks whenever his murderous instincts reared their ugly heads. But if anything, this dark-haired girl was still oozing anger, bright and fierce, her body shaking with the desire to just punch him.

In fact, she almost looked like she…trusted him, like she was sure that no matter whom else he drained of blood, he wouldn't touch her.

He resisted the urge to scoff. She should know better than to trust him. He wasn't _trustworthy_.

It bothered him that he could read her body language so well. He didn't want to make a habit of getting to know Stefan's "friends" (Lexi was a connection he reluctantly tolerated), but somehow, he had managed to pay close attention to this girl without even realizing it.

He didn't get it.

What was it about her? Why did he feel like he shouldn't have turned that stupid sorority girl? Why did that slap hurt him so much, when he'd been immune to pain like that for the better part of a century? And why did he feel like that heat in her eyes could make him come undone, if only she tried hard enough?

Oh _God_. It was that heat in her eyes.

He knew he fell in love with Katherine because of her fire. And here Elena was, fairly burning.

He couldn't go back after that.

…

The first time she lied to him, the trust implicit in that blue-eyed gaze was almost more than she could bear. She knew she shouldn't feel guilty about betraying him, considering he was a Grade-A jackass (the way he was treating Caroline was utterly reprehensible, although lately she'd been pushing away the memory of their "five minutes" in Atlanta), but she did anyway.

She wasn't manipulative by nature. In fact, she felt a little too much like Katherine for her comfort.

And besides, they were almost…friends. This wasn't right.

He pressed himself against her back, forcing her to spin around to avoid what she thought could happen (she was honest with herself sometimes, rarely). "Can I trust him?" He asked quietly. His voice was almost…vulnerable.

She blinked nervously, almost self-consciously. She felt like he was everywhere, in her head and under her skin and, even, floating through her bloodstream. She felt lightheaded, weightless. She refused to blame the sensation on how positively _gorgeous _his eyes were, so she concluded he must be manipulating her thoughts somehow.

"Damon," she stuttered, suddenly breathless, because despite her many reservations about him, he was still her _friend_, and this felt wrong. She struggled to find a way out of this. "I'm wearing vervain," she managed testily.

His face registered confusion, his lips twisting into a frown. She realized with a jolt that he looked hurt.

"I'm not _compelling_ you," he insisted, his voice just the wrong side of threatening. He seemed indignant at the thought that he would compel her, at the accusation that he distrusted her enough to doubt her. It would almost be funny, really, except –

Except he was right. He hadn't tried to compel her in a long time, not since she slapped him by his car and told him icily that she was not Katherine (these days she always felt like her nefarious doppelganger). What was worse, he _should_ distrust her right now.

She didn't trust herself.

He peered at her strangely. "Can I trust him?" He repeated, unquestionable vulnerability seeping into his words.

She gulped.

But she nodded resolutely. "Yes," she said, unable to meet his gaze. "You can trust him."

He searched her face tirelessly.

She was lying, of course. And she thought that on some level, maybe he knew. After all, it had become far too easy for them to read each other's thoughts.

And see, that was scary.

…

The first time she admits how _terrified_ she is, all the time, without pause, she has about a month left, before...before it all ends. Caroline is a mess without Tyler and Jenna is suspicious of everything no one is telling her and Bonnie is dating her little _brother_. She is well aware Klaus will not be merciful (she cannot even expect a quick death), and she is rigid with fear.

She has tried so hard to hold onto the ferocity, the spark, she loves the most about herself. She has tried so hard to stand up straight and smile through this awful mess and just _fight_.

But she can't anymore. So she stops trying.

She seeks him out instead of waiting for him to come to her. She trusts him with this crazy fear, and she can't wait for him to realize that this impeccable façade of hers has finally begun to crumble. If she waits, all he'll find when he realizes how desperate she is are shards of her, remnants of the life she cherishes so much. She can't let him see her like that. She doesn't know why it matters, especially in the midst of all this tragedy, but it matters.

She could go to Stefan, of course. But she knows, somehow, that she can't.

She knows he'll only make her feel guilty for wanting to just give up. He won't mean to (he's surprisingly oblivious, even to his own penchant for condescension), but he'll inadvertently imply that her fear is the price she pays for not fighting in the beginning. He won't understand that she's not scared of dying.

She's scared of dying without making everything right.

So she finds his brother in the shower, after much frantic searching that almost leaves her in tears (she was already halfway to a breakdown to begin with). Normally the sight of him, naked and wet and glistening, would send unwelcome, hot waves of lust shuddering through her. But right now, all she can feel is her ridiculous need to just be with him – to just have him hold her. (She doesn't understand it, but maybe that's the point.)

So she barrels into the shower and into his arms, shivering remarkably as the warm spray floods her eyes, throwing her body resolutely into his, and not giving a damn about the consequences or the implications or anything but _him_.

He is understandably shocked; he stiffens, bracing his hands on her shoulders, vaguely holding her a little away, stupidly conscious of how bare he is.

But she just burrows into him.

He relents when he realizes she's not letting go. Her hands are digging into his back, her nails scraping his skin, and he would think she was coming onto him if not for the added layer of wetness soaking his skin. She's crying; his chest contracts.

He kisses the top of her head without meaning to.

She raises her face to meet his, her bottom lip tucked neatly between her teeth. She doesn't know what to say, because all she can feel is those twin emotions of fear and desire (desire to hold him, desire to know him, desire to show him that he's always been enough). There are no barriers between them now, physical or otherwise, and she's breaking without even conscious thought. With him, she finds it impossible to hide. Maybe it's a weakness, but it is what it is.

They are what they are: passionate and crazy and just _them_.

"Damon," she breathes at last, her hands gripping his body forcefully, desperately, like if she lets go of him, he'll wither away, disappear. "Damon."

His name is like a hymn on her lips.

He just stares at her. He knows her well enough (watches her closely enough) to be able to tell that she's vibrating from sheer, unadulterated fear. She didn't come here to tell him she's leaving Stefan for him. She didn't come here to consummate their long-standing attraction. She didn't even come here to make him promise he won't recede into his self-destructive shell once she's…his thoughts choke on the word.

She came here because she's scared.

And he understands. He knows she feels like she has to be strong for everyone, especially in such dire circumstances, but the act she's been putting on has taken its toll on her. He hasn't seen her smile in god knows how long, and he hasn't seen her laugh – he can't remember the last time he heard her laugh.

He misses her laugh.

This whole Klaus business has been dulling her fire, throwing water onto the flames of her heart, the embers he cherishes with every fiber of his undead being. And if letting her be terrified is what helps ignite that fire, then he'll let her be terrified. He'll do anything to keep that flame burning.

He strokes her cheek, his eyes soft, the way they only are when he's looking at her. He can't tell her that it's going to be okay, because it's not. He can't tell her she shouldn't be scared, because she needs to be. All he can do is hold her.

So he begins to draw her in, flinching when her jean-clad core collides with his all-too-naked bottom half, but almost unaware of that. He can feel the heat radiating from her, but the waves of pure, animal-like apprehension coming off her hit him more keenly. Her fight-or-flight reaction is baiting her. She's leaning towards flight, but she wants to be brave enough to fight.

(She's always been brave enough to fight.)

He wants to suggest that they run away, so far that Klaus could never find them. But he can be brave, too.

He brings her closer. This is a moment he could never share with anyone else, and sorrow floods his very soul. She has given him so much. If she dies –

Just before her head comes to rest on his chest, she pulls back harshly. Her heart is pounding. She has to say something, but there aren't words for this kind of feeling. He is so much, so much. She won't let go.

She _can't_ let go.

"I'm scared," she blurts out, swallowing hard. It's not really what she wants to say, but she doesn't think her lips can form the words right now. All she can feel is how scared she is, how scared and yet how safe (safe in his arms). "I'm _terrified_. I can't breathe, I can't think, I can't stand here with you or talk to Jeremy or lie to Jenna or kiss Stefan or comfort Caroline without wanting to scream. I'm just so _scared_."

She feels a huge, catastrophic rush of relief that she can't explain. It dawns on her that she hasn't actually said the words aloud since they first found out about the curse. She has never said it aloud.

_I'm scared_.

Just those two words, and she's never said them out loud, not until now.

She could kiss him. (She thinks she might.) Somehow, she trusts him with this overwhelming, staggering _fear_. Somehow.

He nods uneasily, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear so tenderly that he surprises even himself. He realizes with a shock that she wants him to – needs him to, he supposes – comfort her. He doesn't know if he can, but he loves her enough to try.

His fingers caress the side of her face, the face he has spent more than 145 years loving, in some form or another. He traces the unmarred curve of her eyebrows, the dip of her nose, the solitary dimple perched on her cheek (it hasn't made an appearance in so long). "I know," he murmurs, dragging his hand across her lips, soft and sacred. "I know, and I'm sorry."

She blinks. Damon Salvatore, sorry…

"No," she whispers, reaching up to smooth his wet hair off his brow. "I'm sorry."

He wishes he didn't know what she's apologizing for. He wishes she weren't about to die. He wishes he had the courage to be the better man for her. He even wishes she didn't depend on him like this, messy and chaotic and dark.

He wishes so many things.

But as he stands here in his shower with her, her long hair matted to her face, mascara streaking her face and fear dwelling in her eyes, all he can think is that he has never loved her so much.

"Don't be," he grits out sharply, voice so rough with emotion that she cries out. "You're scared. That's okay."

She wants to say something, but he closes his eyes and brushes his lips across her forehead. She's speechless.

"I'm scared, too," he whispers into her skin, his breath warm and welcome and familiar, so familiar that she leans into him. "I've been scared for so long."

If she didn't know exactly what he means, she wouldn't do what she does next.

She closes her eyes, too, lets herself go. She nestles into the hold of his arms again, plastering herself to him and whispering into his neck, "Thank you. For so many things."

He feels a lump in his throat.

And so they stand there for a long time, until the water goes cold and they have to face the world.

…

The first time she realized just how deeply he felt for her, her birth mother was staring at her, caustic and bitter.

She hadn't wanted to meet the woman who abandoned her with absolutely no explanation. She hadn't wanted to stand here with her history teacher's vampire ex-wife and face everything she would become, if she weren't careful. She hadn't wanted to look her doppelganger's minion in the eye and proclaim what a horrible mother she was. She hadn't wanted any of it.

But she had to do it. If only to make this craziness come to a screeching halt, she had to do this. It hurt and it stung – more than she thought anything ever could – but she knew she had to do it.

And after she relented, after she gave in, after her mother said things that would have made her cry if she weren't trying so hard to rein in her emotions, she felt, felt so keenly, that she needed to know just one more thing.

She couldn't stop this question. The burning curiosity fled her mouth, the words stumbling from her lips so quickly that she almost didn't realize she was saying something.

"How did you know you could trust him?"

Isobel smiled, cruel and resentful, and stared at her daughter with ill-concealed disdain.

"Because he's in love with you."

The words seemed to echo in the silence, pure and pristine. She wanted to accuse Isobel of lying, of thwarting the truth for her own wicked desires. But she knew it was true. She knew somehow that yes, he was in love with her. The moment Isobel said the words, they embedded themselves on her brain.

She couldn't run from them anymore.

She willed herself not to look at him. It was a concentrated effort, difficult, especially because she felt so gnawingly raw. She didn't know what to do with this knowledge. She wondered fleetingly if Stefan knew, but disregarded that notion immediately; it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but those _words_, bouncing off the walls of her mind, shaking her resolve and changing everything she thought she knew.

He was in love with her. He loved her. He – she deflated.

Because when Isobel left, it was Stefan whose arms she barreled into, Stefan who held her tightly, Stefan whose shirt absorbed her hot tears. It was always Stefan.

And even if he met her eyes for the briefest of seconds as she locked her arms around his brother, unreadable, broken, it wasn't enough.

(It would never be enough.)

…

The first (of many times, admittedly) he put a fissure, a crack in her already fragile heart, she wished she could hate him.

She felt like a broken record. _I hate him I hate him I hate him_, she whispered into Jeremy's smooth hair, leaning into Stefan's soothing touch on her shoulder. She knew she was lying, but she couldn't stop the words, couldn't stop her blinding sorrow.

She could still feel the tug of his lips on hers, insistent and unyielding and tinged with the sweetest touch of sadness she had ever witnessed. She could still see the desperation in those maddeningly lovely eyes, the sheer _longing_ catapulting through his body. She could still smell the lingering alcohol on his breath, the lack of blood in the air as her baby brother crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud that she would never forget. And still, she could hear the words she never wanted to have to say, the words she used to torture him mercilessly, intentional or not: "It's always going to be Stefan."

(She wasn't lying, but she wished she were.)

But now, all she felt was an ache, deep and catastrophic. Jeremy might be alive, but she had never felt more like a ghost.

And still, she could not hate him.

(She thought she might never be able to.)

…

The first time she kisses him, it is so sweet and overwhelming and _beautiful_ that she feels like crying.

It's two weeks before Klaus' predicted arrival (according to Bonnie, at least). She doesn't like chronicling (dividing, really) her life like that, neat hemispheres that don't intersect. But as she stands on the front steps of the Boarding House, shifting her weight from foot to foot anxiously, she thinks she has to divide her life like that. It's the only way that standing here with her fists clenched makes sense.

The door swings open at last, and there he is: the man she is fully prepared to die for. Something unclenches – her fists, maybe – the moment his familiar face twists into a smirk, and suddenly she feels relieved. She feels at ease, relaxed, like she hasn't been since Klaus threatened to ruin her life, threatened to kill her and her family and the men she loves almost too much. She doesn't doubt this anymore. This feels right.

This _is_ right.

Honestly, she's not sure why she feels like she has to do this. She doesn't understand her conflicting emotions, for one. She hates him and she loves him and she hates him again.

But she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she wants to know what it would feel like to kiss him, just once, before the possibility of him dying – of her dying – becomes very, very real (becomes unavoidable).

Before she wastes the chance.

So she takes a purposeful step forward, coming so close to him that his metaphorical breath catches in his throat. She lifts her gaze to his, her eyes tracing the ridges she knows so well, the intensity she can't lose, even if she loses all else (she doesn't know where the realization comes from, but she knows it's true). She raises one hand, touches his cheek, her fingers feather-like on his skin.

She can't tear herself away.

He stares at her, dumbfounded. They haven't had a meaningful conversation since he stood in the shower with her (for her) – he thinks they've been avoiding the awful, glorious reality that they're willing to die for each other – and here she is, such hope beaming through her tantalizing smile that he feels unhinged somehow.

He thinks idly that this is how he'd always like to remember her: heart in her mouth, light in her eyes.

She rests her head on his chest, casual, unhurried, natural, even, breathing him in, closing her eyes against the body she so longs for. His arms tentatively come around her, careful not to break the impossible perfection of this, of him and her and the thousands of other things that suddenly don't matter.

She smiles, low and reaching, and touches her lips to the base of his throat.

He doesn't know why this is happening. He doesn't know what she's doing. He just knows he'll stand here with her as long as she needs.

She holds still, perfectly still, like she always does when she's with him. This bond between them is inherently fragile, and she's afraid to pierce their cocoon. She's afraid to lose whatever it is they have, the thing she can't ignore, the thing he can't explain.

The thing neither one of them is willing to let go of.

And she knows Stefan would be heartbroken if he knew what was happening. She knows she's betraying him. But Klaus is coming. She might die in a few weeks. Suddenly, everything but the blue-eyed vampire she's holding pales in the shadow of this approaching tragedy.

So finally, she murmurs into that trademark John Varvatos shirt only one word. He doesn't quite understand what she says, only that it sounds like…love.

He kisses the top of her head (he remembers kissing her forehead, and he wishes she knew). "Are you…?" He frowns, unsure which words could adequately describe the weight of this moment. His lips hover just above her hair. "Are you alright?" He tries to make his tone lofty, but deep-seated curiosity burns through every syllable.

He feels her bow-shaped mouth curve against the hollow of his collarbone, and he shakes, just a little.

She lifts her chin. Her eyes are sparkling, bright with tears she can't believe she's crying. Her fingers linger on his jaw.

"I just need to know what it feels like," she whispers.

He swallows, hard. He knows exactly what she's talking about.

He nods.

And when she kisses him, light erupts behind her eyelids, and all she feels is how much she wishes she could be his.

…

The first time she admitted they had something, that there was something between him, she was righting past wrongs and fixing whatever it was that she had broken.

(Him.)

As she told him, she wouldn't apologize for lying to him, because she wasn't really that sorry (her ability to lie to herself was never more in question than when the lie was about him). But she knew her betrayal had hurt him, different than Stefan's betrayal. He had trusted her, openly and freely, and she had let him down.

So she took a step towards him, knowing that what she was about to say might change things irrevocably. She could have walked away; perhaps she should have. She had already said what she came here to say. She had already apologized. She had already promised him she wouldn't go behind his back this time.

But she couldn't stop herself, as she often found was the case with him.

"Why didn't you compel me in Atlanta?" She pushed, crossing her arms. She wanted to hear the answer. She thought she might even _need_ to hear the answer.

He smirked. "How do you know I didn't?"

She blinked. That was a possibility she hadn't considered. She trusted him enough, even back then, to believe that he wouldn't take advantage of her. It hurt to think that maybe she was wrong.

But no. She knew he didn't compel her. She just knew. Somehow.

"You didn't," she asserted, noting bitterly that her voice had lost some of its confidence. "I know you didn't."

He just gazed at her, his eyes unfathomable. She shook her head angrily. She couldn't believe he was being this difficult.

She thought that they were friends. Or, at least, she thought that they were close enough for him to be honest with her when it mattered most. And this mattered. This mattered, and she hated him – truly, burning hatred she couldn't expunge – for acting like it didn't.

But even so –

"You and I," she sighed, holding his gaze even as his eyes threatened to pierce her very core, "We have something."

He arched an eyebrow.

"An understanding," she rushed to clarify, heat flooding her cheeks.

His face contorted into an expression she couldn't readily decipher.

So she said other things, promised him she wasn't lying this time, came closer, took off her necklace (she was surprised at her total and complete absence of fear). She stared at him, did everything she could to make him see that she meant what she was saying. But all he did was reach behind her and clasp her necklace, a move so uncharacteristically sweet that her throat constricted.

"I didn't compel you in Atlanta because we were having fun," he whispered, not looking at her. His hands were light on her neck. "I wanted it to be real."

She knew he was telling the truth.

And so later, much later, when he killed more people and broke more hearts (broke _her_ heart), she held onto those words as a promise that underneath it all, he could be good.

If only he believed that, too.

…

The first time she fell into a moment completely with him, they danced.

Stefan was nowhere to be found, probably on some murderous rampage (she hated that such a thing had become typical in her life). She was racked with worry for him, and still, she had to dance this nonsensical dance. Because her mother would have wanted her to, and the thought of Miranda Gilbert still brought tears to her eyes.

If given the choice, she would have wanted to dance with Stefan, of course. But Stefan rendered that choice nonexistent, so she found herself dancing an ancient waltz with his brother instead.

And even though nothing about this moment was right, it still felt right.

Somehow.

Because somewhere in this haze of confusion, she recognized that this was a milestone of sorts. The last time Damon danced this waltz, he danced it with Katherine.

And now, his eyes were only on hers. His hands were only on her waist. His face was contorted only with affection for _her_.

She knew he only saw her.

And suddenly, he was all she could see, too.

…

The first time she realized she couldn't stop herself from feeling something for him, she blamed it on how malleable he seemed, how compassionate and emotional he was allowing himself to be, at least for that one lovely moment. Of course his arms didn't surround her the way hers surrounded him (he was stubborn when it came to their physical contact), but she trembled from the heat of him, his heady smell, the desperation roiling off him in waves.

He'd already lost so many people. His mother, Katherine, Stefan, even. And now Rose.

She felt like her heart was breaking.

He didn't cry. She knew he wouldn't, but she thought he needed to. He wouldn't let go with her, and she needed him to. She needed him to trust her.

But he was still, silent, almost breathless in her hold. She was reluctant to relinquish her grip on him, afraid that he would careen off the edge – terrified that he might not recover from the fall. But slowly, she stepped away.

She felt inexplicably sorrowful, grief rippling through her rigid body. She liked Rose (as much as she could like someone who was sleeping with the man she understood was her property), but she was not mourning her. She was mourning something else: the slow burn that scorched and singed and made her come undone.

She was mourning Damon.

His eyes were blank when she pulled back at last, and she wanted to scream. He had always been so strong (for her), but he was clearly flailing, unable to articulate how devastated he must feel. She didn't know how to help him; he wouldn't let her.

His gaze slid over her, glazed, unfocused. He hardly even saw her, and the tears rose in her throat. She was not so selfish as to smart at his indifference, but it hurt even so, the kind of lingering, tender hurt they inflicted each other on a daily basis. God, she missed him.

His eyes finally met hers, and there was such agony in that inimitable blue that her knees buckled. She felt a flash of something hot and unassailable, but she didn't look away. She couldn't look away. Because he was Damon and she was Elena.

And they had something.

Of course she had always felt this, whatever this was, for him. Until now, it'd been fairly easy to convince herself that she could expunge her rampant attraction (although it was so much more than that) to him, if only she fought it hard enough. She could ignore the flickers of fire on her skin whenever he touched her, the dull ache in her chest (she couldn't say heart) when his eyes softened, almost invariably in her direction.

But in the wake of his grief, that crippling, frightening beast, she was helpless. He was spiraling, and all she could feel was how much she wanted to save him. How much she wanted –

Him.

She couldn't deny it anymore.

…

The first time Elena is honest with Stefan about her feelings for Damon, everything – the remnants of their relationship, the fragile nerves of their supernatural coalition, her tenuous sanity – is bleeding, festering, damaged beyond repair. Her voice breaks. She forces herself to hold steady.

"I'm sorry," she breathes, aching to take a step towards him, yet realizing she can't be close to him now (not ever again). She doesn't know what she's apologizing for. She only knows that she's sorry.

He smiles at her, warm, bittersweet, nostalgic. He makes no move to touch her. "You chose him," he says gently, like that's explanation enough for this inexplicable distance between them.

And it is. Those three words have defined this hellish love triangle, more than even "I love you" (because she loves both of them, and the distinction has never been clear). For so long, the choice didn't exist; it was only (always) Stefan. But all too quickly, the decision presented itself, radical and enticing and difficult to ignore. The decision that would shape the course of her life, as melodramatic as that seemed.

She had made that choice. Her choice. Even if she hadn't meant to make it (and she hadn't, not yet), she had chosen.

Just by virtue of kissing the other Salvatore brother, she had chosen.

And God, she hadn't _meant_ to. It had happened, and she wasn't sorry, but still. She hadn't been aware that pressing her lips to Damon's on the steps of the Boarding House was a conscious choice, a decision she was making, the decision she realizes they'd all been waiting for. She hadn't known what would happen.

And now it's happening.

Her eyes fill with hot moisture. "I –"

Stefan shakes his head, that same understanding smile haunting his sinfully beautiful features. She feels sick to her stomach.

"You don't have to explain yourself," he reassures her, masking the note of pain in his voice so well that she wouldn't hear it if she didn't love him like this (but she still does). "You're in love with him."

Holding Stefan's gaze feels gut wrenching and agonizing and tragic after such a powerful statement. But Elena finds she can't look away. She can only nod.

Stefan sighs, hard, deep. "It's okay," he whispers, and she surprises herself with how much she wants to believe him. "I know you. You wouldn't do this over anything less."

She looks away. This. What is this?

She hasn't done anything. She kissed Damon because she had to know if there was even a choice to make. She didn't realize that kissing him meant she'd forged her own path. She doesn't know how she feels about that.

Her nose scrunches up in worry. She had pushed the possibility – the inevitability – of Stefan's pain to the back of her mind, lingering instead on all the other ramifications of kissing someone she wasn't supposed to want to kiss (let alone _actually_ kiss). But suddenly, she realizes she needs him to know that this is tearing her apart, too.

She means to tell him how much she wishes things – how she felt – were different, but her lips form words she can't hold in.

"He makes me feel alive," she murmurs, her eyes suddenly blazing, alight with the fire of her emotion. "He makes me feel whole."

Stefan winces, but she doesn't regret her honesty. He needs to know that she loves his brother (even if she can't say it out loud), that he makes her happy. Stefan deserves the truth, no matter how much it hurts both of them to admit it. She realizes it sounds like she's in the middle of a really bad Lifetime movie, but that doesn't seem to matter so much.

In the midst of preparations for the battle, nothing seems to matter but the love she can't resist.

Stefan comes closer at last, leaning his forehead against hers. "I know," he whispers. "Elena, I know."

And even if he will never really know, it's enough that he lets her go.

…

The first time Damon threw himself into danger specifically for her, she was still in that awkward phase, those moments of wanting to hate him, needing to hate him, but never quite reaching that point. (This was also, coincidentally, the first time she realized he'd give his life if it meant saving hers.)

They were at Duke researching Katherine's origins in the hopes that they would understand why she was back in Mystic Falls, a fruitless mission at best. And as if the movement didn't even cost him, he blurred right in front of her just as her mother's graduate student tried to kill her.

She only had time to register the pain on his face, the pain that was emanating both from that arrow and from the heart she laid awake at night wishing he had, before he slumped to the floor.

Her first instinct – the instinct that overrode everything else, even the fact that just a few weeks ago he snapped her brother's neck – was to reach down and check if he was okay. He was, of course, but that didn't still her erratic pulse. That didn't rid her of the rancid bile in her throat, the sudden pain.

The easy, almost natural understanding that she would have broken if he died.

So she pulled out the arrow, and she wished he had never changed things between them. They were getting so close to something special, something she might be willing to fight for. She could even see the man he used to be, before he fought with his brother over a girl and lusted after blood more than women. They were getting somewhere.

But he just took that away.

And later, after he accused her of manipulating him (she didn't deny it), after he compared her to Katherine, after he asked her if she had lost him forever (the pain in his eyes was unmistakable, and it took all she had not to find her way back to him), she stood on her porch with him and felt herself fall.

But not into him. Never into him. Because she couldn't, no matter how much she thought she wanted to (sometimes).

His eyes were searching.

"Did you see the ring?" She asked shortly, her heart pounding in that crazy, off-course way she was accustomed to when it came to him. She knew the answer, of course – she'd known the answer the moment that regret had flickered across his face as he stood in her doorway. But she needed him to say it. Maybe then, she'd be able to let go.

He clenched his jaw. "No."

Something like regret coursed through her.

"Thank you for being honest," she said at last, fighting the urge to slap him, to yell at him, _anything_ but stand here and take his remorse, his fear. He didn't want to lose her, but she was afraid she'd lost him first.

"And to answer your question –"

His gaze was blindingly hopeful, and she wanted to look away. (She never wanted to lose him.)

"Yes," she whispered, and it hurt to say it, hurt to admit that she'd been his to lose in the first place. "You've lost me forever."

He didn't say anything. He just nodded, that incandescent blue imperceptibly darker. A lump rose in her throat, but she bit it down. And then, as if none of this mattered to him (except she knew better now), he walked away.

He didn't turn back to look at her, and she didn't watch him go.

But she felt him the whole way home.

…

The first time she realized he would stop at nothing to save her life, she was the one who was trying to take it.

She spun around to find him glaring at her. She felt only a shiver of rage at Rose for calling him, and then it was replaced by hot anger, directed solely at him (it felt like all the anger in her life was directed at him).

They had a battle of wills, or whatever she could call it. She didn't know how to describe the simultaneous annoyance and affection pouring through his eyes as he leaned over her, intent on communicating that he wouldn't let her get away with this.

"Don't _ever_ do that again," he growled, low and menacing, crushing her fist in his, his gaze trained on her lips. She knew he was referring to so many things: her running away in the first place, her trying to sacrifice herself, her hitting him, her assuming he'd just let her do this.

All these things, and the only thing she wanted to do was scream.

But she settled for glaring at him, hard and furious, and making him feel like she wasn't doing this for him, too.

Even though if Klaus asked, she would happily die for him.

By the time they arrived back in Mystic Falls, her wrath had dissipated somewhat. She was still incredibly, wretchedly angry with him for taking away what might have been her only chance. But she thought she understood why he came for her. She didn't want to understand, but she did.

Until he grabbed her arm on her porch and warned her, "What you did today was _incredibly_ stupid."

She thought childishly: _And you're _incredibly _annoying_.

She wrenched her arm from his. "The only thing that was stupid about it was that I got caught."

He glared at her.

She cocked her head. "I don't question why you and Stefan and everyone else try so hard to save me. You shouldn't question why I'd want to save all of you."

A flicker of understanding passed between them, easy and simple.

And then, it was all shot to hell when she ran down the stairs to the tomb and found Stefan trapped in there with Katherine. She screamed, loud and long and furious. She screamed and she thrashed and goddamn it, she _broke_.

He stopped her, of course.

She just hit him, hard and intense, fisting his shirt in her hands, pouring all her frustration into the steady pound of her fingers on his collarbone. "Let me go!" She screeched, and she knew he wouldn't but she had to say it anyways.

She cried. She cried, and he just let her.

…

The first time she lets herself love him (lets him see how much she loves him), he is giving her a pep talk about what will come at dawn. She sits in the Boarding House, white and terrified, eyes fixed on every crevice of his face, a face she realizes she should have done a better job of cataloguing before. She is hungry now, greedy for every glimpse of that blue he is willing to give her, every curve of his lips and clench of his jaw. He is mesmerizing; she is captivated.

She has kissed him once before. And all she can think is that she cannot die without kissing him once more.

He is dutifully explaining the exact mechanics of how they plan to destroy Klaus, gesticulating with his hands where she's going to stand and how many seconds they'll have to perform the spell and –

She can't begin to tell him how grateful she is that he's not sugarcoating this. He has a tendency to be brutally honest with her – often at her expense. But right now, it's what she needs. She needs to know everything.

But despite this very vital explanation, she hears only snippets of his long tirade – "For heaven's sake, make sure you stay behind the tree," and "Judgy will wave her arms and do her stupid magic tricks," and "It's not perfect, but it'll work." She is barely listening. She is just staring at him. She cannot fathom him dying tomorrow.

She cannot do it.

Suddenly, he is interrupting himself in the middle of a detailed, step-by-step process on how they're going to manage to keep both Elijah and Klaus dead, something like astonishment reflected in those bottomless eyes. She blinks, stutters, wonders why he's stopped.

"What is it?" She asks curiously, realizing that her voice is thick, like she's trudging through cotton.

He gapes at her. "You're –" He shifts, coming closer, so close that her exhaustion overwhelms her. "You're crying."

She nods. Of course she's crying. All she's been doing lately is crying.

"Your point?" She ventures, a fake smile settling messily on her face.

He covers his hand with hers, a movement so natural and careless that she feels herself start to sag, wane in his direction. "You're going to be okay," he promises her, his thumb tracing reassuring circles on her fingers, as if touching her will make his sentence a reality. "We'll make sure you're okay."

"I know," she breathes, and she _does_ know, and she loves him for it (it slips out, and she doesn't want to take it back). "I know I'll be okay."

He smiles, genuine and real (the first of its kind she's seen in a while), and she wants to close her eyes and run far, far away.

"Then what?" He prods, his voice unexpectedly urgent, pleading, desperate to understand why her eyes look like the inside of a tomb.

She shakes her head, hard and fast. She's afraid she can't find the words, but she knows she has to. She has to somehow convey that if he dies, she will die, too, in every way that matters. If he dies, she'll just be a shadow of herself.

"I can't lose you," she blurts out without preamble.

His eyes widen. "What do you –"

"I _can't lose you_," she repeats, squeezing his hand. She means it. She means it so much that the tears are falling too rapidly to stop now. "No matter what else happens – even if _I_ die –" He glares at her at the errant mention, how flippant she sounds – "I can't lose you. I just can't."

He stares at her for a long, long moment, punctuated only by her heavy breathing. He is so very still, and she almost regrets letting slip how much she cares about him. But she doesn't regret it, because she needs him to know. If she dies, she needs him to know that had she lived, she would have given anything to make sure she never lost him.

He shakes his head again, fervent and confused, as if he doesn't understand why she's so vehement about his survival. "You won't," he whispers, crushing her fingers with his so ferociously that she thinks absently that he might break them. "You won't lose me."

She reaches out to him, her free hand diving towards his cheek. "Promise me," she breathes, tears blurring her vision, making it impossible for her to feel any residual embarrassment over this outburst. "Promise me, promise me I won't lose you."

His jaw drops. "Elena –" He begins.

She cries out. Her name on his lips is too tender, too sweet. She cannot handle it. She cannot do it. She _cannot_.

"Damon," she rasps, leaning forward abruptly and clashing her forehead with his, angry and real. "You can't die. I won't let you."

He closes his eyes. "Elena," he breathes, and once again the sound of her name rips through her, sending cascading movements of pain and fear resounding in her blood, fighting maniacally against being this close to him and yet still not being _close_ to him. "You know I can't promise you that. I'll try my best, but I might still die tomorrow."

She grinds her forehead into his. "No, you won't," she demands, her voice steely. "You _will not die tomorrow_."

If he's shocked at this admission, at this request, he doesn't show it. Instead, he just cradles her face in his hands and murmurs, "Okay."

And she kisses him. She thrusts her face to his and presses her lips to his and breathes him in, because she can't do this anymore. She needs him to stay alive and she needs to feel this moment between them, the fire and the ice and everything else.

She needs to feel _him_.

She pulls back at last, breathless, broken.

"Come back to me," she whispers, staring at that blue like it can save her (and it has so many times before). "Please, no matter what happens, come back to me."

He just nods.

(They both know he can't promise her he will.)

…

The first time he understood why Stefan was in love with her, they were miles from home – miles from Stefan, even. She was the only company he had, and, like he told her, she wasn't the worst company in the world.

A wave of tenderness flooded him when his eyes slid over her prostrate form. Her brow was furrowed, even in sleep, and he chuckled under his breath. She was much too stressed for her own good.

When she awakened at last, she was groggy and disoriented, but no less haughty and self-righteous than usual (it was some kind of explosive relief for him). She snapped at him, berated him for taking her away without leaving a note or something. She demanded that he drive her home, griped at him, shook her head angrily and asked if she could trust him and made him promise she would be safe with him.

He played along, giddier than he thought he could really be comfortable with. She was winning him over far too easily.

Somehow, she had already managed to consume him.

But she was cute when she was drunk, he decided. Her eyes were dancing (he'd never really understood that saying before now), her head was thrown back (exposing the silk lines of her neck and making his mouth go dry), and she was bouncing up and down, restless on her bar stool. She touched his arm and laughed a golden laugh and sang as loud and off-key as she could.

And he wanted to think otherwise, considering she looked so much like the woman he loved too much, but…she was beautiful, goddamn it.

He thought maybe he was secretly enjoying her power over him. He didn't like giving up control, but she was different, even if he couldn't explain it. She had always been a special case (the only person he would ever make an exception for).

And when she pleaded with Lexi's boyfriend to _please_, _please_, _please_ _don't hurt him_, _please don't kill him_, he remembered why.

Elena Gilbert was just special.

…

The first time she voluntarily touched him, without reservation or fear or even that agonizing indecision, she knew he would be crying, if only he could.

He stood there off to the side, eyes wide and terrified and _lost_, unseeing. She ached somehow, ached for him in ways she didn't even know she could. She could never condone everything he'd done to get Katherine back, but she knew – recognized it in that deep place Stefan loved so much – that he'd done it all out of love. She could understand that.

She thought she understood him, for once.

He loved Katherine. He loved her in that way she knew only he could love: deep and abiding and painful and forever (too long). And she wasn't in the tomb. Katherine, for whom he'd sacrificed everything, over whom he'd ruined his relationship with his brother, wasn't in the tomb.

She hurt just thinking about it.

And despite what Stefan might think of him, despite what she herself might think of him, she was just so _sad_ for him. He didn't deserve this. Because despite the cruelty he dispensed like it was small talk, despite the havoc he wreaked like it was typical behavior…he didn't deserve this. (She wasn't sure anyone did.)

And besides, she cared about him. She hated herself for it, hated herself for managing to muster any kind of consideration for this ruthless killer. But no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, she cared about him.

So she did something she wasn't sure she even knew she was doing. She did something neither of them would ever forget.

She hugged him.

It took her a moment to realize that her arms were around his quaking body. It took her a few deep breaths to muster the courage to whisper in his ear, "I'm sorry." It took her tears and a furrowed brow to hold him tight. And it would take her months to let go of the deadness in his eyes, the dull of that unfathomable blue.

It would take her forever to forget the way he didn't hug her back.

…

The first time he really was the "better man," as she liked to profess he was capable of being, it hurt. It hurt more than loving her at all. It hurt more than discovering Katherine wasn't in that tomb for 145 years. It even hurt more than the guilt and self-loathing that becoming a vampire imposed on him so long ago (the guilt and self-loathing being a vampire still imposed on him).

It just _hurt_.

He stood there in her bedroom, saying the words he hadn't spoken aloud in more than a century, and his eyes began to water. He could feel himself fading, splitting into two, because he could not understand the expression on her face. She was entirely too trusting, entirely too open, especially since the last time he was here, he (almost) killed her brother.

She opened her mouth, just a little, but he couldn't bear to hear her rebuttal. He knew what she would say. And he didn't come here to force her hand. He didn't need her to tell him that she felt the same way. He just needed to say it. Just once.

His lips ghosted across her forehead, tender, true. She didn't cower from his touch, and he savored the moment, closing his eyes, his fingers tracing the soft curve of her cheek. The words leaving him felt impossible to stop, but he was so sad. He knew he would fight for her as hard as he could, for as long as he could.

(It still might not be enough.)

His hand smoothed her hair off her precious face, her eyes smoldering as she stared at him. The tendrils of something thick and untouchable floated between them, and everything that once mattered no longer did. He wanted her to remember. But –

"I can't be selfish with you."

And he wouldn't be. He wouldn't be selfish, not with her. Never with her. He knew that taking away her memory was cruel and perhaps unnecessary, and maybe even the exact opposite of what he intended. But he needed to give her up to his brother.

Because when he looked at her, he wanted more than anything else to be the better man for her.

So he would try. He would try to be the better man. He would try.

He would try for her.

…

The first time Elena chooses Damon over Stefan, Klaus has the two Salvatore brothers by the throat.

His fangs are poised on Damon's neck, but his fingers are caving into Stefan's chest, begging for that criminal tear of his heart from his body, the way Elijah loved to kill. He could end their undead lives simultaneously, if he so desired.

But Klaus' gaze is trained on the girl who started it all, the girl who is braced against a tree, tears brightening and devastating her eyes. The only thing keeping her in place is Bonnie's convenient spell. She strains against the tenuous threads of magic, but her strength wavers. She is helpless in the face of her entire world threatening to crumble around her. Her mouth forms the word _please_, over and over again, but nothing comes out.

She knows she cannot fix this.

Klaus smiles, cold, sinister. He is entirely too beautiful for such a cruel smile.

"We already know you must die," he drawls nonchalantly, his nails tapping an incessant staccato rhythm on Stefan's chest. "Your life is not in question." He flicks his eyes to the stoic dark-haired vampire who is stubbornly staring straight ahead, betraying nothing. "But you can only save one of your precious Salvatore men." He grins malevolently.

Elena's eyes widen. She cries out nonsensically, shaking her head, darting her eyes wildly about, searching for some way out, some way to salvage those she holds so dear.

She does not understand why Klaus is doing this. It doesn't make sense.

(It also doesn't matter.)

Klaus takes a casual, calculated step towards her, pulling Damon and Stefan along behind him as if they are nothing more than lap dogs. (Her jaw clenches at the sight.) "I can only promise to keep one of them alive," he explains, for a moment sounding so regretful that she melts, involuntarily, inescapably. "So who will it be?"

Elena immediately looks away, almost without conscious thought. If she dwells on how captivating both brothers are, she will never be able to make this decision.

The silence stretches on, reaching and probing and breaking. Everyone is holding their breath, waiting, hoping. They have all already accepted their fate; Bonnie is clinging to Jeremy, Caroline's arms are twined around Tyler. Only Elena still fights. Only Elena still wills.

Who is she willing to die for? Who does she _want_ to die for?

She has never quite understood the premise of dying for someone. If you love someone that much – if they love _you_ that much – then what is the value of a life without you? They cannot be happy without you. They will live the rest of their life (the rest of time) grieving you, bitter, broken. There is nothing romantic about that.

That is only tragic.

But as Elena's eyes linger on Damon's face, on his sharp cheekbones and piercing blue eyes and pointed nose (everything about him seems poised to stab her so easily), she understands perfectly.

She cannot die knowing he is dying, too. She cannot give herself up to Klaus without assurance that Damon will still smirk, will still saunter through bars and drink himself into oblivion and whisper her name in dark rooms, even if no one is there to hear (especially if no one is there to hear). She cannot explain why it matters so much that he lives, but the violence of her need overwhelms her. She starts to tremble, shake, her bones vibrating.

And Klaus' fangs are still perched on Damon's neck.

Bonnie and Caroline lace their fingers through Elena's, a silent show of support. Of course they don't want her to save Damon – to _want_ to save Damon. But they're her best friends, and they know she can't muster the courage to do this alone.

Klaus shakes his head, a disparaging chuckle coating the air. "Elena," he singsongs, his voice scorching with derision. "I'm running out of time," he reminds her gently, his nails dragging down Stefan's shirt. He is almost too amiable, but Elena can hear the impatience blurring into his words. _She_ is running out of time.

They all are.

Elena stares at the two brothers who changed her life. She loves Stefan; she always has, and she thinks she always will. He put her back together when she thought the pieces of her were too small to ever reassemble. He held her when she ached with pain and regret and fear. He was hers, and she was his, and it was perfect. But Damon –

She physically _hurts_ at the thought of him not existing. She is in agony at the very idea.

So she shakes her head violently. If she doesn't say it now, she won't say it at all.

"Damon," she breathes, tears streaming down her face. "I choose Damon."

…

She never regrets that choice.

_fin

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**Any comment you have to offer would be much appreciated.**


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